The doorman sees me crossing the street, clocks my leather jacket and jeans, and grimaces at me as if to say, don’t even think about it. It's only when I get up close that he recognises me, and then that grimace turns into a kind of sneer while he waves me through. The boss took this place over a couple of months back, so now I get a bit of leeway on the dress code. Still not allowed up into the VIP rooms, though, so it looks like some things never change.
I get myself a drink and sit at one of the tables near the back of the room. Tonight I just want to watch, and think. The longer I work for the boss, the more places I come across like this, places he either already owns or he's making a move on. It's starting to feel like this town is just an ant farm set up for his amusement. So why don't I make a point of going out of town on my days off? You'd think I'd relish the opportunity to get off the leash. But I always end up coming back to places like this, where I can feel the boss's influence heavy and thick in the air around me. Maybe I should accept that I'm just another ant running around on the course he's laid out for me.
"Mind if I join you?"
I look up at the young guy next to me, and it takes me a moment to place where I've seen him before. He gives me a smile, looking over the top of his glasses at me, and then I remember. One of the junior bookkeepers, the one I talked to that time the boss sent me to pick up the ledgers. I remember that smile, and the way this guy lingered just a bit too long over handing the books over, looking me up and down a few times as if he thought he needed to be extra clear about it. I remember how quickly he scurried off into the office when the chief bookkeeper shouted for him, and I remember that the view from behind wasn't bad at all.
"If you're paying." I push my empty glass towards him. I should probably feel bad about making him spend his money, since I'm pretty sure I bring in more than he does, but I must be in a sour mood tonight because I find myself not really caring.
"Same again?" He picks up the glass and slings his jacket over the chair next to me.
I nod, and I watch him go over to the bar, trying to figure out whether he's just after a bit of flirting to liven his evening up, or whether he's really going to try to pick me up. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea, getting friendly with someone who has his hands all over the boss's books every day. Even a junior must get to see some interesting figures, and a junior could end up being senior one day, so maybe I should give this guy his money's worth. And he does look good leaning across the bar to collect his change, with those smart trousers pulled tight across what is, after all, a really nice ass.
So when he comes back, I pull his chair a bit closer to me, and take the drink out of his hand with a smile. "Thanks, uh…"
"Lloyd." He says, sitting down next to me.
I put my hand on his arm and give it a friendly squeeze. "Right. Thanks, Lloyd. My name's–"
"Oh, I know who you are, don't worry about that!" He gives me a kind of coquettish laugh, and takes a sip of his drink.
"Is that right?" I flash him a grin. "Well, I don't know what kind of rumours those gossips in the back-office have been spreading, but they're all true, every last one of them and then some."
"I can believe it," he says, giving me a red-hot look that tells me pretty clearly how much he'd like all those lurid stories to be true.
There's a smattering of applause from the tables in front of us, and I can hear the usual Friday night singer wrapping up his act, so I clap along politely but I keep my eyes fixed on Lloyd. He looks a bit nervous, but I reckon he really is up for it. And hell, maybe I'm underestimating him. He might be just a bookkeeper, but he's been around longer than I have, and who knows how many of the boss's new recruits he's been through. I might be the latest in a long line of rough trade.
"How long've you worked for the boss, then?"
"Oh, ages, since pretty much straight after I left school. Long enough to have seen a fair few, er… Staffing changes, shall we say."
He's blushing a bit now, but he looks like he's got more he'd be happy to tell me, if I keep pushing him the right way. It's cute, and I find myself wondering if he'll still be blushing like that once I've finished with him.
"I'll bet there are plenty of colourful stories you could tell." I put my hand on his arm and squeeze it lightly, just enough to redden his cheeks a little more. "If you were the indiscreet type, I mean."
All of a sudden the club is filled with the sound of a new singer's voice, and it's the kind that makes you stop and just soak up every note. I look over to the stage, and that's my first mistake tonight, because as soon as I lay eyes on the singer I'm hooked. It's a young guy about my age in a dark red suit, singing with his eyes half-closed and his hips swaying gently as if he's being touched by something a whole lot more pleasant than a spotlight. I recognise the song, it's just some sad old ballad, but the way he sings it… Well, those aren't sighs of sorrow he's breathing out against the microphone. As I watch, I can hear Lloyd still talking to me, and I know ignoring him means I'm probably wrecking my chances, but I just can't tear my attention away.
"Oh, him." Lloyd says, finally realising that I'm not listening, and his tone of voice gets my attention straight away. "No, no, you don't want to go near that one with a bargepole."
I glance across at Lloyd for a second, and I give him a raised eyebrow for good measure. "Why not? Is he the boss's son or something?"
"Hah!" He chuckles. "Oh god no, nothing like that. In fact, from what I've heard, the boss picked him up right off the streets like he did with you. No, it's just that anyone who gets involved with that guy… Well, they don't stay on the payroll for long."
"Yeah?" My gaze drifts back to the singer, and I let it run over each inch of that glossy black hair and immaculate bronze skin, while my imagination fills in the rest. Watching the way his lips quiver while he sings, the way his hand strokes up and down along the microphone stand, it's like someone's suddenly turned up the heating in here about ten degrees too hot. "What's his name?"
"Camille. Well, that's his stage name, anyway." Lloyd gives a little sigh, like he's done this speech before and he's getting tired of it. "I don't know what his name was before the boss got hold of him."
I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to try my luck with this Camille, but I've already got my sights on the bookkeeper, and I want to wrap this up first. One thing at a time, nice and simple. So I turn back to him, giving him another one of those grins he seems to like so much. "Well, if you don't know, then I reckon no-one does."
He seems to like a bit of flattery too, because all of a sudden he leans across and puts his hand on my thigh, under the table. "Fancy getting out of here?" He says, still looking like there's a chance he might bolt for the door before I give him my answer.
I put my hand on the back of his neck, stroking my thumb over the skin just above his shirt collar. "What do you think?"
I stand behind the bookkeeper while he unlocks the door, close enough that he can feel me pressing up against him, and he fumbles with the keys until he drops them altogether. Muttering something to himself that I can't hear, he crouches to pick the keys up again, and I take the opportunity to grab a handful of his hair and push his face down to grind against my crotch.
"You've been after this all night, haven't you?" I say, letting him feel every inch of my cock, jutting against the denim of my jeans and scraping against his cheek.
"Yes, but n-not out here!" He says, and that stutter just makes me want to keep going.
I let him go, but as soon as he's unlocked the door I grab hold of him again, one hand in his hair and one on his shoulder while I bundle him through the doorway. This time there's no complaining, just a faint little moan every time I grind against his ass. I throw him down onto the sofa and kick the door shut behind me, expecting him to wince at the bang it makes, but now he's on home territory it seems like he's full of confidence. He just looks up at me with those serious, hungry eyes, just waiting for me to make my next move.
"Come here," I tell him, grabbing hold of his shirt collar. He slips down off the sofa onto his knees in front of me, quick and eager now he's behind closed doors, and starts busily unbuckling my belt and unfastening my jeans like he's tearing through the wrapping paper to get to his birthday present. I can't fault him for enthusiasm, I'll give him that. As soon as he gets a taste of my cock, those busy hands disappear down into his lap, and I can hear him fumbling his own trousers undone. And I like that, there's nothing better than knowing the boy sucking your cock is getting off on it, so I grab a handful of his hair and fuck his mouth harder, giving it to him as deep as I can without choking him. But even as I'm trying to hold off, he's pushing forward and taking just a little bit more, just enough to make himself shudder and cough.
"Can't get enough of it, can you?" I pull my cock out of his mouth and let it slap against his face, drawing a wet smear of saliva across his skin. He makes a hungry little noise, rubbing his cheek against the shaft, and I give another hard yank on his hair. "Where do you want it, then? In your mouth or in that nice little ass?"
"My mouth… My face…" He murmurs, slurring so it's hard to make out, but I get the message. So I stick my cock back into his mouth and carry on fucking his throat, keeping both hands locked on the back of his head while I give him what he wants. That's when that damn song from earlier starts going through my head. I can just picture the singer on his knees like this, I can picture those lips sliding down my cock, all wet and smooth and soft, and I can almost hear the demanding little moans I know he'd make. And that's enough to finish me off, too soon for me and probably too soon for the bookkeeper, but there's no stopping it now. I pull out and let him have it, letting my come spray across his cheeks and tongue and right across those pristine glasses, until I'm spent and he's grinning up at me like I just made his day.
Getting carried away like that gives me a little twinge of guilt, so I decide I'm going to give him the five star service just to say sorry, and I haul him up onto the sofa before he's got a chance to finish himself off. One hand on his throat and one wrapped around his cock seems to do the trick, and I've barely given him a minute of attention before he's tensing and bucking underneath me, groaning like I'm wringing the life out of him. And when he's done, he looks up at me with those serious eyes again, only they're a whole lot softer this time.
Still, he might have taken a liking to me, but he doesn't like me enough to want me hanging around once he's finished with me, so I take the hint when he mumbles something about being tired. I've dried my hands and fastened my jeans before he's had a chance to take off his shirt, and I'm already on my way to the door when he calls me back.
"Drop by the office if you feel like another chat. And listen, seriously, leave that singer well alone." He takes his glasses off and just looks at me, almost like he feels sorry for me. "You don't want to end up like the others."
"Don't worry about me," I say, grinning over my shoulder at him as I leave. "I can handle myself."
I beckon the bartender over. "That singer, Camille, when–"
"Tuesdays and Fridays." He cuts me off, giving me this withering look, like I'm the hundredth person to ask that question tonight.
"Tuesdays and Fridays, alright, thanks." I pay for my drink and wave him away when he tries to hand me the change. If the poor guy's having to play directory enquiries for a boy like Camille, the least I can do is tip heavily.
So on Tuesday night, I'm sitting at a table up front, chatting to one of the messenger boys while I wait for Camille to come on stage. Only he never does, and me and my friend the messenger boy spend all evening watching some mediocre old crooner who's obviously been dug out of storage on short notice. About an hour before closing time, I go over to the bartender to ask what the deal is, and I only get the word "So–" out before he interrupts me this time.
"Don't look at me," the bartender shrugs. "Ain't my fault if he doesn't show up."
I spend the next few days avoiding the club, sticking to the kind of dive where you don't get any kind of singer at all, let alone a handsome one with a bad reputation. I keep my mind on the job, and I tell myself that I'm not going to get caught in this boy's orbit. There are plenty of other pretty young men working for the boss, enough that I could keep myself amused for months without needing to get mixed up with one like Camille. I should take Lloyd the bookkeeper's advice, and steer well clear.
But that lasts about as long as you'd expect. On Friday night I'm back in the club, sitting up front and watching Camille work the stage again, just like the dozen other smitten idiots around me. Some of the other guys I recognise, and some I don't, but they all have the same look in their eyes. Like they've got their ankle caught in a snare, and as much as it hurts they can't quite stand to pull themselves free. The only difference between me and them is that when Camille finishes his act, I can slip backstage and try my luck outside the dressing-room, while the other chumps are waiting outside in the cold.
I've been backstage a couple of times before, but only to deliver messages back and forth, so being back there under my own steam feels kind of weird. Like I might get collared by one of the boss's other lackeys and be asked to explain myself. Which is an interesting thought, but it's not going to get me where I want tonight. So when none of the people scurrying up and down the hallway take the slightest notice of me while I stand there and wait, I'm kind of disappointed but a whole lot more relieved.
Then the door at the end of the corridor swings open, and Camille walks through it, and my mind just goes blank. I start walking towards him, no idea what I'm going to say, but as it turns out it doesn't matter anyway. I'm so wrapped up in the sight of him that I don't even see his bodyguards until I've collided with one of them, and the impact sends me stumbling back like I've run full pelt into a brick wall. Camille doesn't notice me at all, not one bit. He just breezes past me, and the nearest I get to him is catching the scent of his perfume on the air as he walks away, with those two bodyguards trailing behind him like great hulking shadows. Then I'm alone in the hallway with a bruised shoulder and some wounded pride. And now I want him more than ever.
The next time I go to the club, though, it's on the boss's business. There's a bit of me that would rather be waiting backstage and dodging bodyguards, but it's tiny compared to the part of me that wants this job to go smoothly. I've done so many assignments where all I needed to use was my fists or my body, and I'm good at those jobs, but I know I can do more. And now I've got a chance at a job that uses my brain, I'm going to make damn sure that nothing interferes with it. So when I sit down with my two guests, it's right at the back of the club, and I take the seat facing away from the stage. Like I said, no distractions.
The negotiations go pretty well, and it turns out I get a kick out of haggling over the details. There's something satisfying about probing to see how much these two will agree to without going back to their boss, and I get the feeling that this is all going to come down to who knows their boss's priorities best. Let's say I've had those priorities hammered into me often enough that I'm not going to forget them any time soon, and I reckon that gives me the edge. But I try not to get cocky about it, and I don’t let my guard down for a minute. No matter what it takes, I'm not going to screw this job up.
Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, soft and light, and before I know it I've got something slim and dark and doused in perfume sitting on my lap. "You don't mind a little company, do you?" Camille says, draping his arm around my shoulders. "I do hope I'm not interrupting."
These two guests might be strangers in town, but I get the feeling at least one of them recognises Camille, because the guy on my right is practically drooling, but the guy on the left looks like he's just spotted a black widow crawling up my leg. But I can't afford any distractions, and as much as I like pretty boys, I like the boss's approval a lot more, so I push Camille away. "That's cute," I say, sliding him off my knee and onto his feet again. "But I'm busy right now, sweetheart, so why don't you come back later?"
He doesn't say anything, and I keep my eyes on my guests and a nice, steady smile on my lips as I listen to him walk away. And now the guy on the right looks at me like I'm crazy, and the guy on the left looks like he's seen a ghost.
I lock the door behind me and take my jacket off without bothering to put the light on. I just want to go to bed and collapse. Maybe it's the tiredness, or maybe I'm just getting slow these days, but it takes me a few moments to realise that I'm not alone in the flat. I can see a spark of orange a few feet away, and I put the light on before I've even thought to pick up anything like a weapon. But that's probably for the best, since it's Camille sitting there in my living room, and I doubt he'd take kindly to having a knife waved in his face.
He smiles at me, lounging in an armchair with a cigarette in his hand, like I've invited him around for a friendly late night chat. I stand there, just staring at him, while I try to get my head even halfway clear. Right now I've got a dozen separate trains of thought charging off like racehorses, and the two in the lead are how did he get in here, and if he's willing to go this far then what else is he capable of?
"When I said come back later, this isn't what I had in mind." I finally manage to string some words together.
"Oh, I'm not here because you asked me to come." Camille gets to his feet, and saunters toward me. I watch him move, and my eyes drink in the sight of him like they're trying to get me drunk. He's got that dark red suit on again, and at this range I can see just how closely-cut the thing is, how perfectly it wraps around him and guides your eyes down along his body to rest right where you'd expect them to. He watches me watching him, and those dark eyes of his sparkle like someone's lit them on fire. "I'm here because I wanted to tell you something."
I should get him out of here. I should throw him out, and then I should go to the boss and ask what the hell he wants me to do about this boy, before one or both of us ends up doing something regrettable. Instead I give Camille a raised eyebrow and stand my ground. "Oh yeah?"
"Yes." He comes right up to me, and rests one hand on my shoulder, rubbing it like he's petting his prize pony. "I came to tell you, I don't ever want to see you in my club again."
And that's too much for me to take.
"Your club?" I laugh in his face. I can feel the heat of his body, close enough that if I just reached out I could grab hold of those narrow shoulders and shove him to the floor. Being this close to him makes it hard to think, but I shake that off and try to keep it together. "I don't know what deeds you've been looking at, but it sure as hell isn't your name on them, is it? So I think I'll go to the club whenever I damn well please, if it's all the same to you."
Camille takes a drag on his cigarette and blows smoke in my face, with a smile that tells me exactly what he thinks of my reply. "You'll come to me when I call for you, and not before." His hand slips down between us, and before I know it he's got my crotch cupped in his palm, and now there's no pretending that I don't want him. That hand strokes and squeezes me lightly, too lightly by half for my liking. "Do as you're told, don't make any unnecessary trouble for yourself."
"You're in the wrong place if you want someone who doesn't make trouble." I say, sliding my arms around his waist and letting one hand slip down to cup his ass. But I've barely touched him before he's shrugged off my grip and pushed me down onto the sofa, so I guess he's the only one who gets to do any touching around here tonight. In one smooth movement Camille slips astride my lap, and all of a sudden the curve of that firm little ass is pressing against me, grinding warm and soft against my cock through the layers of clothes between us. I keep my hands to myself this time, but I can't helping pushing up against him, letting him feel exactly how much I want to be fucking him right now.
"Why don't–" I start to say, but before I can get the words out, Camille puts his finger to my lips and shushes me.
"You're cute," he says, bringing his other hand up to toy with the collar of my shirt. "But naïve. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."
"Maybe I don't." I grin up at him, shrugging. "Only one way to find out."
Camille leans in close, close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear. "Be good, and you won't get your heart broken. Or anything else."
And then he's on his feet, walking away from me and out of the door, taking any chance I had of a peaceful night with him.
The boy's hand moves a little further up my thigh, and he leans in closer, brushing his lips against mine. Most of the other couples here are at the tables right at the back of the club, nestling the shadows, but me and my boy are sitting up front by the stage, close enough that I can feel the heat of the lights. I've got one arm around his waist, and I bring my other hand up to the back of his neck, holding him in place as I kiss him. A firm touch seems to get him even more fired up, and he kisses me back as hot as those spotlights, clinging onto my neck like he's afraid he'll be swept away if he lets go.
We've been getting stares all night, mostly people enjoying the free show, but the one person who is resolutely not staring at me and my affectionate friend is Camille. He looked at us once, just as he was walking out onto the stage, and that one look was enough to tell me I've hit the mark. And now, no matter how much he ignores me, no matter how he steadfastly he looks anywhere but here as he sings, I know he's got the message loud and clear.
"Hey," the boy says, stroking my thigh firmly, "why don't you come home with me?"
I glance at the stage. Camille is in the middle of one of his big torch songs, the kind that has every last man in the room wishing they could be the one to comfort him.
"Sure," I say, and I give the boy one last kiss, deep and hard, before I get to my feet and pull him along with me. "I was getting bored here, anyway."
We go back to his draughty little bedsit, and I've barely closed the door behind me before the boy's all over me, tugging at my belt and telling me how much he needs to be fucked right now. Which is understandable, given that we've spent all evening pawing at each other while a club full of strangers watched. So I shove him down onto his hands and knees, and I fuck him right there and then, barely stopping to lube up before I give it to him.
And even then Camille's song haunts me. I grab a handful of the boy's hair, and I'm imagining that it's black rather than blond. I run my hand over his back, and I'm wishing the skin under my palm was dark and rich, not pale. I listen to the boy's hoarse little whispers of pleasure, but it's Camille's voice that I hear ringing in my head. So I take that frustration out on the boy underneath me, fucking him rougher and harder, as if I can shake off that longing through sheer exertion. I'm lucky I picked up someone sturdy enough to take everything I can give him and then some, because I've got more energy tonight than I have in a long time, and when I finally come it feels more like relief than satisfaction. Now at least for a little while I won't be thinking of Camille.
I'm on my way out early the next morning when one of those bodyguards appears out of nowhere and puts his hand on my shoulder. I half expect him to just bundle me into his car, but instead he hands me a little envelope and walks off without a word. In the circumstances I'm surprised he didn't follow me home and kick my door down to deliver it, but maybe Camille is feeling a bit more reasonable these days. Maybe not getting his way has taught him a lesson.
I open the envelope, and take a quick look at what's written on the card, then drop the whole lot in the nearest bin. Sure, I could go and meet him, wait in his dressing room like a good little plaything, and maybe I'd even get what I wanted. But I'm not done yet. I haven't made my point. When I get my hands on Camille, it'll be on my terms or not at all.
So I wait, avoiding the club and just focusing on work, until I reckon he's had enough time to think about changing his approach. Then after a week or so, I send him an invitation of my own. Just a time, a date and the number of the hotel room I've booked. Just to let him know that he's not the only one who can issue commands.
By the time that night rolls around, though, I've convinced myself that he's not going to show. I mean, why would he? Right now he's probably curled up in the boss's lap, earning all those extra privileges he seems to have so many of. So I arrive at the hotel a little later than I planned, since I figure there's no reason to rush. I tell myself that I'll wait there for half an hour or so, and then when I'm satisfied that Camille hasn't made an appearance, I'll head into town and see if I can find some short notice entertainment. Might as well use the fancy hotel room, after all, since I've already paid for it.
But when I let myself into the hotel room, he's already there. He's there right in front of me, draped across the bed, barely covered by a silk robe the colour of blood. I can't take my eyes off him, even as the smart bit of my brain is screaming at me to get a hold of myself. And Camille must be reading my mind, because he gives me the most contemptuous little smile I've ever seen, and turns over so that the robe falls open a little more. There's nothing underneath that red silk, nothing but smooth bare skin and more trouble for me.
"So," he says, quiet and low. "Now that you've got me here, what are you going to do with me?"
I'm on the bed beside him before I know what I'm doing. His skin is warm under my hands, and his lips part under mine without another word. I push that robe off him with one hand, and tug my own shirt undone with the other. Somehow I feel like I've got no time to lose, and he doesn't seem to mind me going this fast, not one bit. His tongue flicks against mine, hot and quick, and I can feel his nails on my back as he pulls me closer, scratching me like a cat hanging onto its favourite toy. It doesn't take long for me to get rid of the rest of my clothes, but it seems far too long for Camille, and he pulls at me greedily, running those soft palms over each bit of newly bared flesh like he wants to tear me apart. And when I'm finally naked, he pushes me onto my back and slips astride my hips, letting the curve of his ass rest lightly against my cock. A little spark of mischief glints in his eyes, and he leans forward, brushing my lips with his own as he reaches under the pillows beneath my head. He pulls out a pair of cuffs, and somehow I'm not surprised.
"I'm not going anywhere, you know," I say, letting him fasten the cuffs around my wrists. The chain is looped around the bar of the bedstead, so now I can't move my hands more than a few inches, but if tonight is heading the way I think it's heading, then that's a small price to pay.
"No," Camille smiles down at me, resting his hands on my chest and leaning forward a little, so that I can only just feel his ass brushing against my lap. "No, you're not."
I push my hips up, trying to get back a little of that contact, but Camille just moves forward again, staying just out of reach. Holding onto the bedstead with one hand, he wraps the other around his own cock and starts to stroke himself slowly, watching my eyes as his hand works. I arch up again beneath him, and again he moves to avoid me, and that's when I get an inkling of what he's got planned for tonight. He smiles that scornful little smile at me, and works his hand faster, leaning forward so that his face is a few inches from mine.
"Do you know what I need right now?" He breathes, and I can hear the catch in his voice as his hand seems to hit just the right rhythm. I stay quiet, just watching him, and he laughs softly. "Shall I show you?"
He reaches over to the bedside cabinet and opens the drawer. I can't see what's inside from here, but I can guess. He takes out a little bottle of lube, and shifts around in my lap, turning so that he's facing away from me. And then he brings those lube-coated fingers back to slide between the cheeks of his ass, and my mouth goes dry. I watch him circling and stroking that tight little muscle until his skin is glistening with lube, and I just want to knock his hand out of the way and push my own fingers inside him. And by the look on his face, Camille knows just what I'm thinking. He looks at me over his shoulder, watching me watching him as he slides first one finger and then a second in right up to the knuckle, and I'm not sure if the glint in those dark eyes is pleasure or contempt.
"Why don't you let me take over?" I say, and I find my voice sounds a hell of a lot more desperate than I want it to.
Camille just giggles like I've said something absurd. He slips another finger in beside the first two, working his hand in short, swaying little thrusts, and I can hear his breath getting shallow. It's almost as if I'm not here at all, as if I'm part of the furniture that Camille happens to be leaning on while he pleasures himself, and I'm damned if that doesn't just make me want to fuck him even more.
He leans over to the cabinet again, and this time before he reaches into the drawer, his free hand runs across my stomach and down to grip my cock, just for a moment, just long enough for me to get a taste of how it feels to have those fingers squeezing me. And then he lets go again, and that teasing hand dips into the cabinet drawer to pull out conclusive proof that I'm not going to get what I want tonight. My face must be a picture of frustration and disappointment as he takes the toy out of the drawer, because he gives a gleeful little laugh and trails the head of the thing across my skin just to taunt me.
The rubber of it is the same deep lurid red as his robe, and it shines like patent leather under the coat of lube he gives it. He closes his eyes, holding the dildo still and working his hips slowly, until the head of it sinks into his ass. I watch the toy sliding into him, inch after inch as he rocks and sways on top of it. I watch his ass spreading and stretching around the shaft, his fingers splaying around it as he takes more and more, until the base of it nestles against him. And I want nothing more than to break these cuffs apart and take hold of that toy myself, to give Camille the hard fucking he deserves, to hold him down and make him feel the same burning frustration he's making me suffer through, until he's begging for relief.
He reaches back, opening his eyes just enough for me to see the malice in them, and takes hold of my cock again. One stroke, just one sweep of his fingers along my shaft, that's all I get before his hand withdraws. He turns his attention back to the dildo again, leaning forward and riding it harder now, bracing himself against the bed with his free hand. I can't see his face from here, but I can imagine the pleasure on his face, and I can hear every ragged breath and every faint little moan he makes. The sound of the toy sliding into him, wet and relentless, that's the worst of it. I hear that sound, and I can't help but think of how my cock would sound plunging into that slick little ass, how my hips would slap against his thighs, how I'd drive groan after groan out of him until his throat is hoarse. He's one broken chain away from being taught a lesson he won't forget, but the cuffs hold tight and all I can do is lie there and watch him work.
"You can barely stand it, can you?" Camille breathes, shifting around again to face me. The movement hardly interrupts his rhythm, and now I can see his face while he rides the toy, every little furrow of his brow and every last twitch of his lips. He watches me with those heavy eyelids half-closed, and wraps his free hand around his cock, stroking himself firm and fast. Now those moans are a whole lot less faint and a whole lot more desperate, and his face is flushed with effort. I can see how close he is, how hungry he is for it, how his hips jerk and grind and his fist works ever faster. I can see it all, and if I had my hands free I'd close my fingers around his and push him right over the edge just to see him lose control. But I'm locked in place beneath him, and I can only watch him moan and squirm on top of me as he starts to come, as he bucks those narrow hips and lets it spray right across my skin until my chest and stomach are dripping with his come.
"Poor thing," he says, out of breath but full of scorn, and he leans forward until his lips are a fraction of an inch from mine. I can feel his breath against me, and I hold still for the kiss I'm expecting, but it never comes. He slides off me, discarding the toy and me like we're both utterly boring now, and he only stops briefly to pick up his robe from the floor before he saunters out of the room and leaves me there alone. Alone, naked, cuffed to the bed and spattered with come. Which isn't out of the ordinary for me on a Saturday night, but it's a million miles away from where I wanted this Saturday night to end.
It's at least half an hour by my reckoning before those bodyguards show up and finally uncuff me. While I waited, I had plenty of time to go from frustration to self-pity, through to embarrassment and right out the other end to anger again, but now I just feel tired. I just want to go home and forget about this whole mess. The bodyguards don't even look at me as they unfasten the cuffs and throw a towel at me, so I keep quiet and stay out of their way, getting cleaned up and putting my clothes back on as fast as I can. I get the impression they're used to cleaning up after Camille, and for them this is just another one of his trashed hotel rooms, just a heap of debris for them to straighten up before they leave.
Walking home from the hotel, my head is spinning so much it's a wonder I don't end up in the gutter. I walk through the streets, but I'm not really seeing what's around me, I'm not hearing the traffic going by. All I can see is his eyes, his lips, his bare skin just out of reach. All I can hear is his vicious little laugh, his moans, the sound of that toy sliding into him again and again, all of it playing on an endless loop in my head and driving me slowly mad. It's not like this is the first time I've walked this frustrated walk home. Plenty of times the boss has fucked me and sent me home as soon as he was done, plenty of times he's lent me out to some old friend who tired of me and left me to take care of myself. But never like this, never at the hands of a boy like Camille, and that's what really stings.
I'm sitting in the club, drinking quietly on my own, when the waiter approaches me. I can see his hands shaking as he tells me that Camille wants to see me, and would I please go up to the VIP rooms, the first on the right. I know I should ignore the invitation, I know this can only be trouble, but I'm stuck on these tracks now and there's no getting off until the end of the line. So I give the waiter a friendly pat on the shoulder, finish my drink, and set off towards whatever the end of line has in store.
The room looks empty at first, but I hear his footsteps behind me as soon as the door closes.
"Don’t you think we should finish this?" Camille says, smiling up at me with eyes as bright as the polish on the gun in his hand.
I'm impressed at his nerve, I'll give him that, but the minute he pulled that gun on me, he switched the game to one I've got a chance of winning. I've knocked the gun out of his hand and kicked it out of reach before the smile has faded from his lips, and I give him a slap across the face for good measure, the kind the boss always gives me, hard enough to leave a nice red mark on that pristine cheek.
He glares at me, eyes full of shock and fury, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I don't give him a chance. I grab his shoulders and slam him up against the wall, pinning him there with one hand on his throat. Another move I learned from the boss, and another that does the trick nicely. Camille's eyes are still hot and angry, but he moans and wriggles in my grip like I've pressed just the right button. So I keep my hands where they are, tightening my grip a little, and when his arms slide around my waist I can't resist leaning down to kiss him.
If his kisses were hungry before, now with my fingers squeezing his throat they're outright ravenous. He licks and sucks at my tongue like he can't get enough, squirming against my body as I hold him in place, making feverish little noises of pleasure all the while. And then those sharp little teeth sink into my lower lip, and he pulls back to give me that vicious smile again, staring up at me defiantly. Which is cute, but I know how to deal with him now, and even those mocking eyes of his can't throw me off-balance anymore. So I grab hold of his hair and yank his head back, hard enough to pay him back for my bitten lip and rough enough to make him yelp, and when I move my other hand down to grab hold of his crotch, he's as hard as I am and then some.
I keep my hand tight in his hair, and use it to drag him over to the table in the middle of the room. And that's when I spot the little bottle of lube waiting for me on the table.
"You've been wanting this all night, haven't you?" I can't help laughing as I shove him forward and bend him over the table.
"As much as you have," Camille says, and I can hear the longing in his voice, mixed in with the usual smooth contempt.
I yank his trousers down and lube him up quickly. Now that I've got him where I want him, I'm not going to waste a second. He shifts impatiently underneath my hand, and when I slide a fingertip into him he all but whines for more. I could keep him waiting, I could torment him like he tormented me, but I don't want revenge anymore. I just want him. So I hold him down with one hand in his hair and one on his hip, and I slide my cock into him as fast as he can take it. It sinks into him smooth and easy, as if he was made for this, and I can feel him tensing around me, hot and tight and soft enough that my breath catches in my throat.
"Harder…" Camille moans, almost as soon as I've started to move inside him, and I get the feeling he'd be demanding more even if I'd fucked him raw for hours. "Harder, make it hurt…"
All his talk makes me want to see his face while I fuck him. I want to see those eyes while he begs for my cock, so I haul him upright and turn him around, and he's kicked off his trousers and shoes before I've pushed him back onto the table, so it looks like he likes the idea too. And I don't just want to see his eyes, I want to see every bit of him, so I grab hold of his shirt and tear it open, impatient to get rid of every last bit of his clothes. He flings it aside and lies back on the table, bringing his legs up until his knees are pressed to his chest, and when I grab hold of his throat and thrust into him again he gives a purring moan loud enough for the people downstairs to hear.
And that's when the door opens behind me, and the look on Camille's face goes from pleasure to fear and back again in about two seconds flat. I turn around just in time to see the boss closing the door behind him. He advances on us, unbuckling his belt, and I can feel Camille shivering underneath me.
"You boys… You can't play nicely together, and it's spilling over into your work. I want your minds on the job, both of you." The boss grabs my ass and squeezes it roughly, then picks up the bottle of lube and pours a little into his hand. "So this game of yours ends tonight, understand?"
His voice is ice cold, sharp and hard like a blade against my skin. He might be enjoying the sight, and he might intend to take advantage of the situation, but there's no ambiguity in the boss's orders. He means it, and I get the feeling that if Camille or I fancied pushing our luck, being out of a job would be the least of our worries. So I nod, and Camille does the same. Then the boss's fingers slide into my ass, and I can't think of anything but how much I want him to fuck me, and when he finally does push his cock into me all I can do is groan helplessly like he's splitting me wide open. Camille smiles up at me, watching my face as the boss fucks me, and those dark eyes sparkle with what could be amusement or desire. "You love it," he says, stroking his own cock as I fuck him with every bit as much force as the boss is giving me. "You love it as much as I do, don't you?"
And maybe he is mocking me, but he's right. Fucking him while the boss pounds my ass is pushing me right up to the edge of coming, and I don't care. Tonight, I'm going to make sure I finish first. Tonight, no-one's going to have their fun with me and send me home unsatisfied. So I let the sensation overwhelm me, let it soak through every bit of me, every inch of my cock as it sinks into Camille, every inch of my ass as the boss's cock fills me up, and I let myself fall headlong into the pleasure of it.
And still Camille beats me to the punch. He gives a ragged little moan and rakes the nails of one hand down my back, working his other fist over his cock and bucking against the table like he's trying to break it. The sight of him coming, and the fact that he got his way again, is more than enough to push me over the edge with him. I hiss his name like I'm cursing him and drive my cock in as hard as I can, forcing one last yelp of pain from him as I start to come. He claws at my back like he's trying to cut me to ribbons, and the sting of his nails mixes in with the pleasure until I'm spent.
The boss doesn't give either of us a single shred of mercy. He just keeps on slamming into me, forcing me forward onto Camille so that both of us are shaking and wincing with each thrust, and he tangles one hand in my hair for good measure, yanking it hard enough that I can't bite back a cry of pain. That pain seems to be exactly what the boss wants, and he ups his pace as he starts to come, hammering into me hard enough to shake the table beneath us. I might be sore and exhausted, my body might feel like it's about to give out, but as tired as I am I'd do anything for the chance to do it all again. And from the look in his eyes, that goes for me and Camille both.
Joe gets out of the car, and I shift over to the driver's side to take his place. Once I've shut the car door behind him, he leans down and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Go and wait around the back," he says, giving me one of those nasty smiles that make me glad I'm not going to be on the receiving end of what he's come to deliver tonight. "And if anyone comes out your way, you make sure to keep them there until I come out to get you, alright?"
"Alright," I nod, and he walks off up the drive towards the house.
So I do as I'm told and take the car around back, and it's only once I've parked it that I realise that the song on the radio, the one I'm idling humming along to, is one of those sad old ballads that Camille used to sing. I haven't heard it in months, but even now I'm pretty sure that Camille did a better job of it. But I let the song play for a few more bars anyway, just enough to bring the memory of him back to me for a moment. Then I turn the radio off, and settle in to keep watch.